"Personal Concept."
"In the rehab waiting room, Adam, sometimes Ah-dam-ah,
one person, one name, cracks his knuckles,
apologizes deeply for the car accident.
Heck ow nai fann, heck toi.
The man who did you wrong, my mother called it,
the stepfather's plot, the child abuser,
the sheer luck of being beside Adam
when he drove into the dark-haired woman,
may she rest in peace.
I know the employability of my reconstructed hand,
the thrill of anger in my arm.
No need to temper the pain, it's only my body.
When I write the unforgivable, the songs
are the sensate part of my body.
Simulated sunlight I'll drink at night.
My body will head straight for the impulse
to peer into windows, a private insecurity.
I'll drink chicory at dusklight and come morn,
my ears will call the coon songs that
sutured Bessie's lyricism, a dark transcription
of prideful racism.
Your fingers transcribe dozens and dozens
of pop songs whirring through your brain.
You're writing enough for the both of us.
I tap, I'm a hustling coon, to slow you down.
Don't be racist, you say.
Why would you write such derogatory music?
In Pièces froides, Satie wrote, Cold, crooked dances,
his predilection for ragtime.
I believe the composer had to preface his own sadness,
or at least leave the room.
My hand can manage slivers of metal and 16 stitches,
but there are other complications,
and the man with the green eyes like mica chips,
Adam, who did me wrong, asks if he can see me.
He says I remain beautiful regardless of the accident.
Violence always has to preface beauty.
You hated that I wasn't wearing gloves all the time,
that in this world of shame and counterfeit music,
I would rather see the man who almost killed me than you.
Transcribed: shame's counterpoint,
or praise, praise, praise.
Shove me into a think tank.
The next time I hear of him, it's
in news articles and the commemoration service.
His Facebook says to wear a smile all the time,
like this would prevent his first degree murder.
Then you say, your hand feels better without him.
But I'll never forget my first love.
Must feel like Satie tapping on every 13 white keys
to nine black.
But my hand will never again hold the glass of whiskey.
Adam, what damage I'll temper the world the world will
shudder back, long after bullets have
been pumped into our bodies."
Thank you.